


Scar Tissue

by consultingbisexual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, John Watson's Childhood, Multi, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingbisexual/pseuds/consultingbisexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first ficlet I posted on my tumblr, and the first fanfiction I'd written in about 10 years. Bit rough, very angsty.</p>
<p> John's POV encompassing childhood through to The Empty Hearse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

He never could leave well enough alone. 

From the scabby knees of boyhood to rugby scrapes and bruises, it seemed like there was always at least one part of his body on the mend. 

Sure, he was always physically active (and if you didn’t get scuffed up playing rugby, you weren’t doing it right), but the patchwork of plasters on his skin had a lot more to do with self-sabotage than lifestyle choices.

It was almost compulsive, his urge to pick at healing wounds. Small scars littered his skin, a legacy of repeatedly removed scabs. In medical school, he couldn’t afford damage to his hands, or the risk of infection, but his lower half was still fair game. 

He never hurt himself, not like the girl he’d known in sixth form who’d been a cutter… he just constantly picked away at existing wounds, never letting them heal properly. It was oddly satisfying in a way, peeling away the scabs, seeing if it would bleed again. There was a rush of relief when he did it, the pain-pleasure of scratching a particularly annoying itch.

The bullet to the shoulder that sent him home from Afghanistan left a scar without his help, though he wasn’t in any shape to pick at it at the time. 

Lately… it was a different sort of wound that he wouldn’t let close over.

Every time he saw a head of dark curls on a tall slight frame, or caught a glimpse of a long black coat, it gave that painful yet satisfying feeling, like worrying at the edges of a scab. He didn’t want this one to heal over, because that would mean giving up on him. 

He stood at the graveside of the man he’d loved (even if he was never brave enough to tell him), the best man he’d ever known, and ripped open the half-healed trauma again as he begged for one more miracle. 

“Don’t… be… dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.” 

As the years passed, it closed over for the most part. Just a rough blemish on his heart that only ached on occasion, like an arthritic joint predicting the rain. He’d see the echoes of that ridiculous face in the profile of a stranger, and it would give a dull throb. A sharper hurt came when he was looking for paint and saw one that was almost, almost the colour of the eyes that haunted his dreams - that shade he couldn’t never find a word for. He never did end up buying any paint, but there was a paint chip still tucked inside his wallet.

Then, he sat nervous and fidgeting, waiting for her to return to the table so he could ask. He’d even ordered champagne to celebrate the moment.

But then… he looked up into a face that he thought he’d never see again. He looked into those eyes that were a colour no paint chip could capture. 

That old wound tore open once more… and it was such sweet agony.


End file.
